


your body is a map

by sunshinemachine



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1436224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinemachine/pseuds/sunshinemachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is where the heart is. Simon/Isabelle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your body is a map

There's a slight fog rolling into the early morning, covering the stars and the tops of skyscrapers, but there's still a steady stream of people going in and out of the club over the road. Occasionally they glance at him, puzzled expressions appearing on their faces as they wonder what the young boy is doing leaning against the wall of a derelict hotel, too busy to notice the slight flicker of light peeking out from the boarded up window. If he manages to hold his cigarette just right, the smoke looks like his breath condensing in the cold air, and soon they turn away, filing into the club.

He puts the cigarette back to his lips, the ghost of his lungs burning and tugging slightly at the foreign feeling. His eyes go back to across the street, stopping on a girl with long black hair and a sly smile. He breathes the smoke out, trying to blur the image, but as soon as the smoke disperses he sees her again, though this time her eyes are also on him. The cigarette is crushed between his fingers, the dust quickly joining the pile of ash that had already been collected. By the time he looks back from the mess he's made, the girl is gone.

A movement to the side catches his attention, watching as a figure emerges from the darkness silently. He recognises her; a fledging named Iris who'd been turned the week before by a rogue vampire he'd dealt with himself. He stands up to meet her, though she doesn't step forward. He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts to rock back and forth on his heels expectantly.

"Hello?" he offers.

"Ugh, hi, um I…can I join? I mean, should I? Should live in the hotel?" she asks quickly. He shrugs.

"If you want," he says. "But you don't have to."

"The others said I did," she replies, fiddling with the sleeves of her jacket. "They said it was pointless me trying to pretend to live a normal life."

"It doesn't matter what they say," he says simply. "They're not head vampire. I am." She nods, clearly still confused by the new set of rules. Not looking up she says,

"My mum, she..." Iris trails off, biting her lip. "I'm hungry," she says finally.

"It's ok, just go in before people notice and start asking questions," he says, leading to one of the underground doors. "Ladies first," he gestures. He offers her a small smile which he hopes looks kindly (though he truly doubts it) when he sees her scared face. "It's ok, I'll introduce you when everyone come back, which should be soon – and I'll get you some blood."

.

Simon gets his happily ever after at eighteen: Clary and Jace are happy and in love; he and Isabelle hold hands a lot, her lipstick staining his cheek; Maia and Jordan travel around the world for a while, going on duties for the Praetor Lupis; Luke and Jocelyn get married. He tries to push the thought that there's a life after this to the back of his mind. For a while, it works.

Then, he buys his first plane ticket. Isabelle comes with him, saying that she wants to see what the monsters on the west coast are like. They rent a car and drive up to Seattle and down to Corpus Christi and back to Los Angeles. Already he's lost track of time. Already, he doesn't care.

It's there, in the city of angels (how ironic), that she asks him, "When are we going to go home?"

They're at a beach and it's one of the few times when he's seen Isabelle look almost relaxed. As usual, her whip is wrapped around her wrist, glinting in the sunset behind her. He loves the small smile that appears on her face whenever the sea foam glides over her feet, toes wriggling in the sand; that tiny, incredibly faint blush she gets when she realises he's staring, tucking her hair behind her ear before the wind blows it back over her eyes. She walks over to him, sitting next to him on the front of the car, hands touching, and then,

"When are we going home?"

It takes a long time for him to answer, looking at her footprints in the sand rather than her eyes. Her hand moves away from his, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her purse her lips.

"Simon – "

"You're here," he answers finally.

"Yes," she says exasperatedly. "And I want to go home." He doesn't speak or try to explain, just hopes that one day she'll understand. Slowly, he turns his face towards her, so that it's buried in her hair (still not looking at her), his chin resting on her shoulder and his mouth touching the shell of her ear.

"Ok," he says quietly. "But not now." She nods, tilting her head so that her lips brush the corner of his mouth, before turning back quickly to watch the sun set over the sea.

.

They decide drive back to New York, and he can't really believe that she agrees (but maybe, maybe she can feel what comes after this too). She sits next to him while he drives, getting out his road map and asking him questions when she's particularly bored because she knows he likes it, likes to tell her a little bit about his own world and his own history. Of course, she always interrupts, but it's what he expects.

He doesn't know how long it's been, only that they're about halfway there, when he walks into a lone pub on the edge of a fairly unused road after a Downworlder's underground party, with a half-drunk, half-incredibly-sober Isabelle draped over his shoulders, her words being interrupted with giggles every five seconds.

"Stupid faerie drink, I should be fine," she giggles, an annoyed look appearing on her face shortly afterwards. "Once I've had some food." He nods, setting her down at a table in the corner and going over to order.

"Do you think it's the fact that they serve people 24/7 that's kept this place running, or do they keep it open in the off-chance that a trucker may actually deliver something here? Wherever this place is," he says as he sits down next to her, his arm subconsciously going around her shoulders. She giggles. "Didn't you say not to drink anything, and are you sure that constant giggling is the only side-effect?"

"I'm not the one that got turned into a rat the first party I ever went to," she says, giggling again. "And yes, it's not a harmful drink, just one to make people a bit more…frisky, I guess. Usually, you're attracted to the person who gave it to you."

"Oh, so you're allowed to wander off with some green dude but I can't even talk to another girl vampire?" he asks playfully. She turns to look at him fully, all hints of a smile gone.

"I wouldn't, you know," she says. "I know I did before but –"

"Shh," he interjects, nodding and brushing her hair back from her face. "I know," he says, though he doesn't hear the words, just thinks them. She nods anyway, looking to the side and moving out of his touch. He drops his hand just as the food arrives, laughing when he sees Isabelle crinkle her nose at it.

"Ew." He smiles and nudges her, holding a french-fry up to her face.

"Come on, it's not too bad, and we have salt," he says. Reluctantly, she plucks it from his fingers and takes a bite, looking disgruntled. As usual, he fiddles while she eats, pouring a packet of salt on the table while she rolls her eyes, before turning her attention to the rest of the room. Gingerly, he picks up a couple of grains with the tip of his finger, slowly rubbing the tiny particles between his thumb and finger. His mark on his forehead tingles.

"Do you want to try some?" Isabelle asks quietly. He shudders at the thought. She nods, slowly finishing off her food. After a while she gestures to a room just off the side .

"What's that?" she says.

"It's a tattoo parlour," he answers. "Tattoos…they're sort of like runes, but without the powers or anything. They're inked on rather than burned, and unless you get them removed, they're permanent. You can get whatever you like, really; some people get names of loved ones, significant pictures, symbols, whatever's important." She nods, taking in the information, before taking his hand in hers and pulling him up with her.

"Come on, I want to go have a look," is all the information she gives him before she's pulling him towards the room, and looking at the photographs on the wall. There are lots of different styled love hearts, often with initials in them, quotes, stars, crosses, and the odd infinity symbol, to which Isabelle scoffs at and mutters, "How cliché."

"You guys going to get anything or?" the man in the corner growls out.

"Yep!" Isabelle says enthusiastically.

"Izzy, I think you're still drunk," Simon says quietly. She smirks, dragging him over anyway.

"What do you want?" the man asks.

"A sun," she replies, half glancing at Simon with a twinkle in her eye and a smirk on her face. "Just here," she says pointing to her wrist. Simon sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"I can't believe you still surprise me," he says, shaking his head. She beams at him. He admits, after it's done it does seem to suit her, as if the gold of her whip protects it. The man gestures to him, and before he can say no, Izzy sits him down the chair.

"And, ugh, what do you want?" Grinning at Izzy, he says,

"An infinity symbol." She gapes at him.

"Serio –"

"To show my undying love for you," he says dryly, looking up at her. To his surprise, she looks upset, though it's quickly replaced with a bored, unamused expression. He smiles at her sheepishly. "Oh, same place, please," he adds, trying to lighten the mood. She rolls her eyes, but doesn't look back at him. He watches as the symbol appears on his skin, small but still noticeable, stark against his pale skin as it tangles over his veins.

"There," the man says gruffly. Simon gets up. "You have a very quiet pulse point, y'know." He shrugs in reply, feeling Isabelle tense by his side. He wraps his arm around her waist.

"So, how much?"

.

Iris is wide, wide awake after her second packet of blood, her hands shaking slightly from what he gathers to be a combination of unused energy and nervousness; fear – something he hasn't felt for a long time now. She looks at him, eyes wide, as the vampires that chose to go out file in from the roof or the basement, nodding at Simon and eyeing the new girl with amusement. She leans over and whispers,

"Why are they looking at me like that?"

His mouth twitches.

"Because you're new," he answers. "And some of them get enjoyment watching fledglings find themselves: the speed, the need for blood, whether or not you pretend to breathe; if you try and be normal. It happens with most of the new ones; very few embrace it, but you're a bit different."

"Why?"

"You tried to live a normal life. Most people usually join straight after they've turned, but not you," he replies. "I did it too," he adds. "Times were a bit different then."

"How old are you?" she asks. He dismisses it with a wave of his hand and a mutter of "old enough" under his breath. She nods, starting to drum her fingers against the broken table they're sitting at. "Is there any way to burn off all this energy?"

"Not at this time of the morning," he says, looking at the boarded up windows as if he can see through them. "Well, unless you happen to be a daylighter, which I doubt."

"How do you become a daylighter?" she asks, and he can't help but grin at her ignorance, a small, mean laugh escaping him before he can stop it. He bites his lip, suddenly feeling very tired and old. He closes his eyes, only to see pictures of beaches and weddings and red hair and faded scars. He brings his hand to his forehead, brushing against his mark.

"It's not easy, I'll tell you that," he says. "Unless you happen to know an angel."

"So they exist too?" she says.

"I think so. At least, one used to, one and two halves," he says. "But that doesn't matter, because you should go to sleep." She nods, pulling her jacket closer to her. He can see now that it's signed all over, signatures often being ended with a smiley face or an, "I love you!". He feels a tiny smile appear on his face.

"Where do I sleep?" she asks timidly. He points to the stairs. "Up there, wherever you can find room." She gets up just as he does, walking slowly and surely towards the stairs as he walks towards the steps to the basement. "Where are you going? You've been up all night."

"Out," he says. "I doubt any of you will be causing trouble, unless you're feeling a bit suicidal. If that happens, by the way, talk to them and let them go. It's a way of non-dead life." He doesn't think he's ever seen someone so confused.

"What – hey!" she exclaims as he starts to head down. "What about the sun?" He looks at her slyly.

"In answer to your question, I've been a vampire for almost two hundred years," he says. "I've met a couple of people, angels included. Now, good morning, don't let the vampires bite."

.

It's a while since he's been out, he realises. Usually he's just gone from one bar to the next, his eyes never having to adjust from the dim lighting of the hotel that's mirrored in every single bar he goes to. But the sun is still rising as he walks, casting light over the familiar and new things. He walks for a long time, trying to memorise it because he can feel it again; that need to leave and the sadness that comes with not missing a place as much as he wants to.

Inevitably, he walks past the graveyard, the dawn a haunting backdrop to the crosses and headstones that are already crumbling and cracked in their rows. He stares at it for a long time, face pressed up to the gate that shuts him out – he can't help but wonder how much he'd burn if he walked into it, touched sacred land.

He can't help but think of them, even though he knows that none of them are buried, that they're in the air, being breathed in by strangers as they mingle in with the pollution. Idly, he wonders, does everything burn?

He stays there until the sun is fully up, when he can feel it warming his skin. Then, he walks, not really knowing where he's going. He walks past the club where Clary saw Jace and Isabelle and Alec, the ghost of the Institute, ten million other roads that remind him of all of them, places where it's as if he could run into them at any minute.

Somehow, he ends up at Magnus' apartment, the brick building a stark red against the grey tinged sky. He walks over and presses the buzzer, a layer of dusting coming off on his fingertips. After a long, mechanical whirl, the doors open to reveal a dark hallway covered in dust and cobwebs. Simon feels slightly sick as he walks through it.

The walls of Magnus' apartment are covered in photos, mostly of Alec, others cut out from newspapers. Some, he realises, are in fact drawings with an incredibly lifelike quality to them, from the slight etch of wrinkles to the shine of eyes. He sees that most of the books are gone from the shelves too; most notably his spell ones, and in their place are photo albums. He brings a hand to pick one from a shelf, only to drop it again quickly.

He walks from room to room, looking for a sign that anyone was in there recently while trying to calculate how much time has passed since he last saw Magnus, whether he'd hear about his death or not. In the corner of what used to be his bedroom he finds a small, sunlight faded note that's crumpled like a pillow, the words, Did you really expect me to stay? written on it in a far less flamboyant version of Magnus' handwriting.

After he's traced the edges of the apartment at least four times he sits down, his back to the wall, looking for any evidence of the Magnus that wasn't so sad and made of the memories of other people. In the end, all he sees is the gleam of glitter in the sunbeams, dancing with the dust that covers everything in the apartment.

The first thing he sees when he walks out of the apartment is a clock through a café window. It reads 8:47am. It's then that he wonders when he stopped looking at the time and instead started counting it in days and nights and in the people he lost.

Twelve decades, he thinks bitterly.

.

When Isabelle goes back, he doesn't know what to do. She kisses him on the mouth in front of her parents as she takes her bags inside and he tastes salt. Their wrists bump, tattoos and pulse points lining up and his heart stands still in his empty ribcage and he desperately, desperately wants to be alive.

His lips find her temple and he says, "I'll see you soon," and he means it, he really does.

And then he runs, so fast that he wonders if anyone can see him at all, so fast that his chest feels like it's about to burst but he keeps going, forgetting to breathe and how to live and die at the same time.

By nightfall he's in Boston and he can't quite remember how he got there, only that he wants to feel alive.

(And then it's the same old story you've heard a thousand times before. He finds a girl, eyes that could either be blue or purple, he's not sure, and books a motel. He traces the same runes that Isabelle has on her body, bites her and tastes blood and thinks of Clary, carves ten different words that all have the same meaning on her body because he can't say them out loud, walks his fingers between the mountain range of her ribs, and reads the pages of the gospel between her parted legs.

Later, when the stars are reminding him of blue eyes and small smiles, he opens the drawer next to him and touches the book that he knows will always be there, that may even outlive him. He touches the cross in the centre and smears blood over it, making sure he remembers what it's like to bleed.)

.

He goes back at 2 o'clock with fresh bags of blood from the butcher. He isn't surprised to see Iris there when goes in, sitting at the bottom of the crumbling steps, plaiting her dark blonde hair, only to run her fingers through it and undo it just as quickly. She looks up with wide eye when she sees him, shaking her head at the packet of blood he offers her.

"I couldn't sleep," she explains softly. "It felt…odd." He nods, sitting across from her.

"You don't dream," he says. "Or at least, not for the first hundred years or so, then, you dream in black and white."

"Why? Why is it like this?" Iris asks him, her voice broken.

"It's not too bad," he tries. "You get used to it, I guess. This is the worst period, when you're getting used to it, that's all. It will get better." He smiles at her, though he doubts she sees it through the curtain of hair covering her face. "Look, you're probably just homesick, you'll get over it." She looks at him, her eyes so shiny that for a moment he thinks that she's learned how to cry.

"Mum kicked me out two months ago, it's not that," she says hoarsely. "I moved in with my…I loved a girl. That's why this happened, didn't it?" He sighs, vaguely wishing it were that simple. He brings a hand to her face and tucks her hair behind her ear, a motion from two hundred years ago.

"No, that's not how it works," he replies gently. "This isn't punishment for any sin you've ever committed, and even if it was that doesn't fit the bill. And you're not going to hell – it's one of the perks of living forever," he adds jokingly. She doesn't laugh.

"It still feels like a punishment," she says.

"Like I said, it will get better," he says.

"How?" she mutters, and he grins at the fact that she still thinks he won't hear it.

"Sex, drugs, god, whatever takes your fancy really," he says simply. "Things take time."

"How long does it take to stop loving someone?" she asks. He slides his sleeve over his wrist and doesn't answer.

.

When he gets back from Boston he meets Isabelle at the back of the airport and kisses her until she can't breathe and the only colour that he sees on the back of his eyelids is the same colour as her eyes. And he thinks that maybe, maybe, this is why he has to travel again, to discover the world because he's lost with her, caught up in her own geography. His fingertips brush against her cheekbone and he wonders if he could spend the rest of his life wandering and learning her.

"I'll think about you," he says. "Every day." He knows it's not the most romantic thing to say but it's the only promise he can keep. He opens his mouth but the word forever dies on his lips and instead he reaches into his pocket and shoves the crumpled piece of paper into her hand, trying not to stain it with his blood (three words written over the words of the Bible shouldn't mean a thing, he thinks, yet he sees a piece of charred paper fall down from the burning pyre fifty years later and it's like losing his religion all over again).

At last he says goodbye to her and it's his way of a prayer.


End file.
